Picking up the Happy Feet
by Rebel Paisley
Summary: Takes place during "Saturday Night Gleever". Mike didn't win the dance competition, which he wasn't quite, but could theoretically be, moping about. Puck tries to pull him out of his woes. Naturally this involves making out. Puck/Mike


Picking up the Happy Feet

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, not even a little.

Summary: Takes place during "Saturday Night Gleever". Mike didn't win the dance competition, which he wasn't quite, but could theoretically be, moping about. Puck tries to play good boyfriend and pull him out of his woes.

Warning: Some adult language, boy/boy love, established Mike/Puck

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Mike wasn't moping. Mike wasn't moping because nothing world-shatteringly cruel and mope-worthy had occurred to privilege said moping. And yes, while he _was_ draped across his bed in a rather despairing fashion, staring at his ceiling in the most pitiful of manners (and not doing much else), he was not, in fact, moping, because nothing had happened to warrant a mope. Also, he didn't mope. He was Mike Chang, and Mike Chang didn't mope. And by such rules, decreed by the universe itself, it was physically impossible for him to engage in the moping activity. This was a mope-free zone.

And yes, you were allowed to think the word "mope" and variations of the word-in-question more than five times without actually engaging in the activity. So what if Mike was mildly bemoaning his woes, he was allowed that. That didn't automatically throw him into doing the m-word that could not be physically engaged in, lest the fabric of space and time begin to unravel. That would be awfully inconsiderate of himself, and implausible and-

He was starting to confuse himself. This must be what it was like to be Finn. Or Brittney. Or Puck, that stupid, loveable dumbass.

Mike needed to focus, he was getting off track. There was a reason he had abandoned doing his homework to stare at his ceiling.

Right.

Focus.

_Continue not-moping. _

Right.

It was just a stupid contest anyway. No real rules or organization or anything. Just, hey, get up and dance all soul-train-tastic, and then somebody wins. Easy enough right? Mike had figured his greatest competition would be Brittney or Blaine or like, Tina. He wasn't upset about losing to Santana, she had moves, he would give her that but…come on, Mercedes? Finn_?_ He had lost to _Finn_. No, allow him to clarify, Mike had lost a _dancing_ competition, a competition whose victors were determined by the quality of the skill of their _dancing_, this including grace, coordination, personality, natural aptitude, performing ability…he lost out to _Finn_.

He just-

It was-

Come on, they were judged by their _dancing_. That thing, that verb that Mike had just been doing for like, _ever_, and was going to college for, and was, for the longest time, his only redeeming feature in glee club. That adjective which seemed to be his sole identity for all of his sophomore and junior years, because there was the Asian and then there was the "other Asian". You know, the one that danced. He was _that_ guy.

Dancing Asian, Coach Sylvester had called him.

And he had lost to Finn.

To _Finn_, who was dopey and meant well and a good leader and a good singer but he couldn't, he was practically _known_ for his bad dancing. His Born this Way shirt had been "Can't Dance" so how, _how_ could Mike have lost to _that_ guy?

And in the back of his mind Mike distantly recognized that clearly there had been some ulterior motive going down here, that the finalists were supposed to put on performances that would help them grow as people and that it had nothing to really do with dancing and _blah-de_-_blah-blah_-_blah_, but the damage had been done. His honor, his future _livelihood_ had been offended. Mike knew Mr. Schuester probably couldn't spend that much time focusing on him because he was well-adjusted and had a life plan and aspirations and drive and stuff, but if he and Coach Sylvester were going to put on a competition that was so obviously rigged the least they could have done was _not_ drag everyone else into that mockery of a presumably fair contest.

He was being stupid, _this_ was stupid, he had better things to do (like practicing his dancing, because apparently he _sucked_ at- no, _stop it_) but for some odd reason he just _couldn't_ motivate himself to exert any effort beyond just lying there and breathing. Which he was great at, by the way. Should there be a contest for it that was totally not-rigged he should win, even if he was just the background guy who danced along when other people sang because that was just how he supported them and _why-was-MrScheuster-so-stupid-__**grr**__-angry-face._

Mike more did than thought this last part, and there was a surge of enough energy for him to shake his fist at nothing, and great, now he had just lost the lay-down-and-breathe competition.

There was a glitch in his Matrix, his world was unraveling. Mike wondered if he took this information to Mr. Schue if he would get to win any contests he was clearly unqualified for. Like a singing contest. That would totally collapse Rachel's world, and _then_ the cycle could continue until they were _all_ whining piles of teenage angst. And then they could make simultaneous angry faces at Mr. Schue and say _"This is what you did. Behold the effects of your thoughtless and cruel actions_."

Okay, so maybe that was a bit harsh. But it would be nice for Mike to start a chain reaction of drama around the glee club for once; lord knew everyone else had a shot already.

There was some scrapping over by his window, but Mike didn't bother looking over in its direction. There was only one person who ever used that as an entrance, much to his parent's protests.

"You know," Puck began in that casual drawl that said he knew things, even when he didn't.

Which was most of the time.

"You say I'm stupid," he continued, shutting the window behind him. "But I totally called this when Mr. Schue announced the winners."

Mike made a noncommittal noise (because if Puck didn't get some form of answer he would _take_ it) and continued to stare at his ceiling, not-moping and not-sulking and not-not-feeling sorry for himself. Which he realized was the definition of moping but, whatever, maybe he sucked so much at dancing it was starting to affect his intelligence or something.

"Dude," Puck said, climbing on the bed and sidling into view, "stop moping."

Mike frowned and tried to look around Puck so he could see his ceiling again. "M'not moping."

Puck, the annoying bastard, kept his head stubbornly in view. "Dude, you're kind've taking moping to a level of dedication man has never seen before. If there was a moping competition you would have one bronze, silver, and gold, and all the participation ribbons, _that_ is how mopey you are."

Mike felt his right eye twitch at the mention of contests, and turned his attention to the wall, seeing as he wasn't going to get his ceiling view back anytime soon.

It was sort of disappointing. They had bonded.

Puck took this opportunity to start sucking on his neck, and snuck a hand up the front of Mike's shirt, because he was especially irritating like that.

"I'm _not_ moping," Mike insisted, distinctly _not_-shivering as Puck bit down on a certain spot, and he continued to do nothing because that was all he was good for now.

Just nothing, it was all he could master.

Eventually Puck caught onto this and gave an annoyed huff, flicking the side of Mike's face and backing away to give him an annoyed look.

"Seriously dude, I can't sex you better if you don't give me something to work with."

Mike glared at him. "You don't need to _'sex me better'_ because I. Am. _Not_. Moping."

Puck blinked at him a couple times, and got that look where he was thinking (and really trying, which Mike would have found endearing but there was moping-_no_, there was _not_-moping to be done).

"Dude," the mohawked teen began, look of intense patience on his face, "I didn't think I'd have to remind you that you are the most talented dancer in glee club, because you're smart and you know these things, which was probably what Mr. Schue thought too."

He patted Mike's waist. "So yeah, it was rigged, but it isn't like we all don't know who the best dancer is. It's like," he scrunched his eyebrows, "inherent or undeniable or whatever. It doesn't _need_ to be said because it's freaking _obvious_ you are that good."

He leaned down again and kissed the side of Mike's neck, and then ran a hand across his face. "Like, I know you're not always super-confident, but to them, you're the most confident dude _ever_, so they don't think you need acknowledgement from time to time."

Puck sat back again to look him in the eye and shrugged. "Even if you deserve it."

And, _oh_- this was one of those rare moments were Puck was nice enough to abandon his gruff and generally apathetic attitude to actually be a kind and decent boyfriend. To not only know, but _say_ what Mike needed to hear, and to not care how it made him look, or sound, and to be this big, warm, teddy bear just for Mike.

He felt kind of stupid now.

He was about to apologize for his behavior when, to absolutely ruin the moment because that was what Puck did when they had heart-to-hearts that made Mike all gushy inside, he reached down and groped the dancer, earning a smack to the side and an undignified squeak.

Puck, pleased with his efforts, burrowed his face into Mike's neck and smiled, hands grabbing playfully at the slimmer teen's hips.

"Now I would like to get your pants off, so long as it doesn't interfere with your moping practice."

He didn't bother waiting for an answer before he attacked Mike's zipper, because that was Puck, and it was sort of a rule of the universe that he be a hormone-driven, crazy, sweet, considerate, lugnut.

And he and Mike, they were really good at following the universe's rules.

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Endnotes:

Just saw "Saturday Night Gleever" (I know, I'm a week behind), but I couldn't help but feel miffed on Mike's behalf. And then _this_ came into existence.

So there went my evening.

Hope you enjoyed it : )

Until next time.


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